


'39

by SwansQuill



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adam did all the work, Alpha Centauri (Good Omens), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Aziraphale may be dead, Character Death, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Grief/Mourning, Inspired by Music, Letters, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Queen (Band) References, The Bentley (Good Omens) - Freeform, time skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:14:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23142274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwansQuill/pseuds/SwansQuill
Summary: Based on the Queen song, ‘39, in which an astronaut leaves home to the stars, only to come back 100 years later to find the world changed and his love gone.Or, Crowley does leave for Alpha Centauri, and (thanks to Adam) little changes.Except maybe the fate of an angel.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), The Bentley & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	'39

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been lying around the bottom of my drawer for a while, so I'm curious to see how it does. This is my first published fic on this platform, and was the first Good Omens fic I wrote a while ago, so comments are appreciated!  
> And I promise this is the only time I will ever dare kill one of the boys.  
> Also, please note, I am American, and (this applies to all my fics) though I try to use British spellings/vocabulary when I know to, I definitely don't know all the differences between the dialects. Not sure if that stands out at all, just a warning.

Crowley left Earth on August 13, 2039. He got into his Bentley and started driving. Soon, he was in the stratosphere, and then the mesosphere, and just as he left that he looked back and saw the M25 burning, chuckled dryly, and then slammed the Bentley’s dashboard with a fist and screamed “Shut up!” as it started playing.

“In the year of ‘39-” cut off abruptly, sadly, and then soon the Earth was a shrinking blue dot behind him.

“Bloody car,” he muttered. “Trying to get me sad.

* * *

He parked on Proxima Centauri b, a poorly named but beautiful planet that he, in his foul mood, knew he couldn’t appreciate. He then promptly miracled himself a bottle of scotch, chugged the whole thing, and then after watching it roll away down an alien-looking dune, he fell asleep.

He could have slept for the rest of eternity.

* * *

He wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep. Didn’t know what woke him up either. Must have been a while, because the Bentley was mostly buried in sand by that point and the bottle he’d seen stop just a few meters away was gone. “Uck,” he said, smacking his bad-tasting lips and miracling up some water. Aziraphale was right, he thought, miracled up stuff did taste worse, but he chugged it down anyway, trying to wash away the taste and the memory.

It worked for one, at least, and so uneasily he got out of his car and starting manually digging away the loose sediment, smoothing out the dents, and flicking off the rust. Why? He could just miracle it away, and indeed he was doing that for many of the issues. But L- Sa- Somebody knew he had time to kill. So he did it by hand, and it could have taken a second or a decade for what it mattered. When he was done he sat on the hood of his car, bored and trying to pretend that he was really only that, nothing more. And in doing so he _did not_ throw every love song Queen had ever written out into the sand.

He wasn’t sure how long he waited; Crowley had never been particularly good at telling time (as Aziraphale would heartily inform anyone who asked - not that Crowley was thinking about that). He wandered around a bit, drove over rocky terrain. He listened to some music, letting the notes wash over him without any thought or feeling towards them, so he didn’t notice when all of the love songs reappeared. At one point he found a nice flat plateau and drove the Bentley around, and if someone had been there he would have bragged about breaking his record and finally reaching a speed of over 200 kph. 

But no one was there, and after stopping and staring at a bluish star for who knew how long Crowley sighed, and grumbling he started home.

_ “In the year of ‘39, came a ship in from the blue-” _

“Shut the fuck up.”

* * *

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he reached Earth. Something hellish, probably. A barren landscape, an abandoned battlefield. Maybe something still smoking with the remains of some demons lying about. If he was lucky, the fight would still be raging and he would get caught and killed - the demon the angels would joke about afterward, who road a _Bentley_ for God's sake right into the War. Yeah, he could be satisfied with being the butt of a joke.  _ Beat this _ , he thought.

He didn’t think about Aziraphale, not once. Not him.

What he certainly didn’t expect was for Earth to still be there, maybe looking a little worse for wear with fewer forests, some more space debris floating about, and a visible island of white foaming trash in the Pacific, but still there. Not a battlefield, but rather still the Earth he and-  _ nope _ , just he, had come to know.

Gaping, Crowley drove down right into the familiar landmass of Britain, carefully settling himself down in a field just outside of London and its suburbs. It was not the London he knew, yet it was, in all the ways that mattered. Mainly, that it existed.

For the first time since he’d left, Crowley dare to think:  _ What on Earth did you do, angel?  _ Grinning, he snapped his fingers and there he was, barging into the bookshop.

Shit, he really hoped he didn’t spend  _ too _ much time away. Wincing as he opened the door, he realized he probably should have prepared some sort of apology before he came barging in after who knew how long, but oh well. As long as he got him back.

“Angel!” he called, not bothering to knock or give any other notice that he had arrived. “I’m sorry I ran off, but I’m back!” He paused in front of the front desk, fingers anxiously drumming against the wood. There was no response.

“Angel?” He called again, quieter, then waited and listened to empty silence. Frowning, he went back to the front door and found the sign turned to closed. Maybe the angel was out? Huffing, Crowley turned back to the desk and slunk around it, heading into the back room. He could just as easily be reading, and if he was out, Crowley could simply wait for him there. Not the smoothest reappearance, but again, oh well.

“Hey angel, you back here? I swear I’m not a customer,” he teased, only to step into a room filled with dust. Furrowing his brow, he looked around.

Dust filled the air, thick plumes billowing up wherever he stepped. Looking around, he saw nearly every surface coated in a thick layer of grey and a few corners boasting the occasional cobweb.

_ What the… _

“Aziraphale?” He called out nervously, even as a sick dread started to creep up on him. “You really let this place get bad, it needs a dusting.” Swallowing, he looked up to the flat upstairs and called out, “You up there? Have you just been reading for a month?”

No response, no shuffling of angel feet. Feeling sick, Crowley took his hand off the railing and gingerly dusted off the thick layer of dirt that had clung hungrily onto his palm. The place felt cold, stuffy, like it hadn’t been opened in years.  _ Where could the angel be?  _

Needing something to fill his anxious hands with, Crowley started looking around, trying to piece together what had happened. He ran his hand across the spines of some books, leaving prints of dust and in one case actually causing a book to partially cave in where its spine had been reduced to barely more than a sheet of dirty tissue paper. Cursing, he moved on, sliding his gaze over the other shelves until it finally fell onto the angel’s desk.

In one corner a mug sat, his angel’s favorite wing mug, dusty with a crusted brown dirt on its bottom, likely cocoa having spoiled and then molded or evaporated away into nothing. Next to it, left propped open with a white feather, was an old book - older than many of the books in the shop - titled  _ The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter _ . Crowley frowned, but didn’t touch the book, not wanting to break it as well. For a moment, he thought that maybe Aziraphale had been reading it at the end, but no that- he shook his head. He didn’t want to think about what that would mean, so he cast his gaze around for something else to look at.

That’s when he saw the letter. The corner of its envelope just stuck out from under another pile of books, and curious Crowley slid it out, using a quick miracle to make sure no fragile books could be hurt. Then his breath caught. 

_ To Crowley _ , it wrote, and each letter curled neatly and carefully in Aziraphale’s handwriting, except for the  _ y _ , where the end that usually curled around had been smudged, as if by a shaking hand, and struck halfway across the page in an angry slash. His own hands shaking, Crowley slowly slid a single sheet of paper out of the envelope. He read it three times.

_ Dear Crowley, _

_ I hope this finds you well. I considered miracling this to you, but then realized you probably didn’t wish to hear from me since you ran away. If you’re reading this, that probably means you’ve come back. Good, I trust you’ll find Earth in good hands. _

_ As you can see, the world clearly did not end. You’ll probably be wanting a bit of an explanation for that. And for the state of my bookshop (I did a miracle to keep it safe, but I couldn’t be sure how long it would last with me gone), which hopefully isn’t too dreadful. I suppose you don’t need the full story, just the ending, so I’ll skip to that. I found out where the Antichrist was; a little town not too far from here called Tadfield. Nice place, lovely boy. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you at the bandstand, I should have. I tried to make it up to you (as you can see by the world still being there), and I would have gone after if I could. I didn’t mean what I said then, dear. I would have given anything to go with you. _

_ But anyway, Adam - that’s his name, the boy - he stopped it. There was a bit of a battle, Gabriel tried to force him to start it; you know how he is. I uh, I may have gotten myself into a bit of a pickle in the next bit, so please don’t do anything foolish. I told Gabriel and Beelzebub you were dead, and I think they believed me so if you have come back don’t blow your cover. Please.  _

_ I think I’m dying now. And not just discorporating. I was fighting Gabriel, and I got him to discorporate but not until he stabbed me with my sword. Celestial blade, used in the First War, you know. Not good to get stabbed with. That’s why I’m writing, why I can’t follow you. I’m sorry I messed up, I did my best, dear. I am glad you made it. _

_ I used a miracle to keep my shop safe, and though I don’t know about the state of your flat as I couldn’t protect it too, I managed to get your plants and some sculptures put away in my flat upstairs and they should be alright. I hope they are, again, I don’t know what happens to my miracles after I… you know. Please stay safe, and don’t be angry, Crowley. _

_ Love, _

_ Aziraphale _

Next to the A was a single dark spot, and Crowley couldn’t tell if it was blood or a tear. He could only freeze, his brain stopping, becoming a broken record replaying for him word after shattering word of the d- blessed letter.

_...now that I’ gone…  _

_...anything to go with you… _

_...don’t do anything foolish… _

_...I think I’m dying now… _

_ I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry I messed up. _

Feeling like he was choking, Crowley slowly backed up and fell onto the couch, not even blinking as a huge cloud of dust blew up around him.

_ Love, Aziraphale _

He’d dreamt of the day he would see that, hear that. Now it played over and over in his head, jostling with  _ “I’m sorry”  _ and  _ “I’m dying” _ for attention as his useless brain watched the fight numbly, uncomprehending but for a sick feeling rising in his stomach. 

_ “I’m sorry,” _ the angel had said.  _ “I’m sorry I messed up.” _ Crowley could almost hear him saying it, meaning it even as he clutched a bleeding wound, writing to a demon who had betrayed him and left him for dead in the end.

_ “I won’t even think of you!” _ He’d told him. He’d meant it; had tried to mean it, at least. Now all he could hear was the angel’s voice in his head, saying  _ “I’m sorry” _ over and over and over, pounding in his head and choking his throat until all he could do was give a strangled scream and tear the letter to shreds. He didn’t let himself cry, but he felt the yellows of his eyes expand furiously as he glared at the remains of the letter. A moment later, the letter was back, fully intact, in his hands again, and he reread it, and then with a sob he miracled the new shreds back together again. Feeling like someone had twisted a knife in his chest, he miracled up a bottle of wine and chugged it.

* * *

He was woken up by loud, thumping footsteps.

Groggy and hungover, he glared around the room for a few moments, promising to kill whatever had dared interrupt him. After a while, the sound didn’t repeat, and cursing Crowley let his head drop into his hands as the full weight of reality came reeling back.

_ Aziraphale is dead _ , he forced himself to think. Took a deep breath. “Aziraphale is dead.”

On a shelf across the room, a vase spontaneously shattered, and the sound covered what might have been a demon sobbing.

It didn’t cover, however, another thump, this time clearly coming from upstairs.

Startled, Crowley straightened, listening suspiciously as the thumps grew into regular footsteps. He’d known the angel had a flat upstairs; been only once or twice, just a little place with windows that were annoyingly close to the roof of the building next door to it. Looking out them once, he’d even commented on maybe miracling the space a little wider, so that robbers couldn’t so easily jump into the sill and break the window. Aziraphale had just tutted, saying that it would never happen so long as he was there, which had indeed turned out to be true.

Growling, Crowley swung his legs off of the couch and shakily started up the stairs. He’d be damned (again!) if he let anyone break in and ruin his angel’s home on his watch.

What he saw when he got up to the flat, however, stopped him in his tracks.

Unlike the bookstore below, the flat wasn’t in disrepair, or even dusty. It looked in use, the air clear and refreshing, the smell not of an old, stuffy building but the chill autumn breeze that was wafting in through an open window. Through a door he saw a room that was filled with plants -  _ his plants _ , he realized, wincing as someone twisted the knife in his heart even deeper - plus a few new ones. From a room he vaguely remembered to be the kitchen, he heard the whistling of a kettle, some footsteps and soft voices. It was then that he felt his rage return, and clenching a fist Crowley stormed his way in, ready to catch a burglar.

There were twin gasps as he entered, and stopping in surprise he watched as two teens stepped away from each other, flushing, staring at him in shock and horror.

For a moment, the three of them just stood there, both parties too shocked to say anything. The teens, two young boys, a scowling blond and a scared looking redhead, quickly grouped together again, clutching each other’s arms and shifting so that the blond stood in front of the redhead where he could glare at Crowley unhindered.

Sharply, in an accent Crowley - for all his time away - couldn’t recognize, the boy asked, “How’d you get in here?”

Crowley just stared at him dumbly, then starting shook his head as if to clear it. “The bookshop,” he said, and the boy’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Where’d you kids come from?”

“This is our place,” the blond said defensively, scowling and inching further in front of his partner.

To his surprise, Crowley didn’t get a rush of anger hearing that, just furrowed his brow in hazy confusion. “No,” he shook his head. “That’s not right. My friend owns this place.”

The blond’s scowl lessened, turning more into a confused frown. Behind him, the redhead stepped forward, saying timidly, “Have you got the wrong place? No one has lived here in decades.”

“Decades?” Crowley asked, blinking dumbly. “How long has it been?”

“Since what?” The blond snapped, trying to subtly push his way in front of the redhead again.

Having a pinprick of a clear thought, Crowley snapped, “What year is it?”

The kids stared at him in surprise for a moment before the redhead answered. “2139…” They paused, then stepped forward and around the blond. “Sir, are you alright?”

Crowley shook his head, taking in the news numbly. “Y- n- maybe.” He looked at the kids bewildered. “I came here for my friend, but…” realizing he still held the letter in his hand, Crowley held it up in front of him like an explanation. “He’s dead now. Went and died without me.”

“Oh,” said the redhead, looking at him with what seemed like genuine remorse. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

Crowley nodded, staring off into space. After a moment of silence, he snapped back to the present, looking around the clean kitchen, at the kettle going mad, and the box of biscuits on the table. “You live here now, do ya?”

The redhead nodded, but it was the blond who responded. “We hide here. Our parents…”

“They don’t like people like us,” the redhead finished, squeezing the blond’s arm comfortingly.

Crowley nodded. “Well that’s too bad,” he mumbled, still looking around the room. Finally, his gaze fell back onto the pair, and the irony of the moment finally caught onto him. He cracked a thin smile. “You take care of this place?”

The pair nodded, the blond looking wary, the redhead earnest. “Good,” Crowley said, and then suddenly felt too tired to say anything else. Instead, he felt his gaze being drawn back to the letter, only to be caught back up again when after a moment the boys started moving.

“Come on, angel. Let’s go,” the blonde murmured, tugging his friend’s arm.

“Okay, dear,” the redhead replied softly, and snatching up the biscuits the two inched around Crowley and made for the open window down the hall. Starting in shock, Crowley stared, jaw dropped, as the two young lovers walked down the hall, talking and laughing softly to each other, and slipped silently out the window.

They were born after the end, those two. They shouldn’t have existed; they shouldn’t have loved. But he had to stop it, just so Crowley could come back and see them. With a faux scowl, Crowley looked up at the ceiling and muttered, “Now this is just cruel.” As usual, there was no response, but he didn’t expect one. With a sigh, he started back down the steps, walking in the feet of the two lovers before turning a meter in front of the window and going downstairs. Putting down the letter, he snapped the gramophone in the corner on, and began to clean.

_ No writing in the sand can heal me like your hand, _

_ For my life _

_ Still ahead _

_ Pity me. _


End file.
